Plucked from our roots

Once again, I have some catching up to do. After the two impossibly sunny weeks of orientation, the weather finally changed. First it was raw and rainy, and I started to doubt I had ever even left Maine in the first place. Then it got hot again, and this time, humid, making stuffy metro rides nearly unbearable. And now, at last, it is bright and brisk-- the way fall should be (though the leaves still refuse to change, so I'm not entirely convinced it's really autumn. At least not in the New England sense.)

But lackluster foliage aside, things have certainly settled down. And with classes in full swing, I feel like summer has surrendered, albeit reluctantly, to something more stable.

That is, until the lure of travel uproots us and challenges us yet again to find a sense of home in the unfamiliar. Or at least leads us to accept that we cannot come to fully know a place in a weekend trip, and so we choose instead to bask (basque?) guiltlessly in the sheer novelty of it all. This was the experience I had on two recent excursions: the first an IES trip to Bilbao and San Sebastián in Basque Country, and the second a trip with friends to Lisbon, Portugal. I'll start with just the first in attempts to force myself to write more this week on the latter. (If I struggled with self-imposed deadlines before, this whole abroad thing has made it SO much worse).

Anyway, Basque Country (el País Vasco) is a universe in and of itself. Located on the north coast, the region's merely kilometers from France, but while I could point it out on a map, I couldn't put my finger on the culture of the place. As we got off the bus in Bilbao, a sense of surreality came over me, and it wasn't simply post-nap disorientation or the wet weather fogging up everything. Compared to Madrid, the streets were bare and everything was incredibly new and shiny, clean and fancy (quick history: a huge resource of iron ore was found near Bilbao in the 19th century, there was an industrial revolution, and the economy flourished; Franco suppressed the region for most of the 20th century and things were gloomy again; now el País Vasco has the the highest GDP per capita in all of Spain, and the streets flanked with designer boutiques seem to deny any accusation of a national recession.)

La ciudad por la noche.

And so we started the walking tour along the river and passed geometrically-inclined architecture and some pointless but endearingly funky sculptural pieces. All this led to the Guggenheim Museum, where we would spend Sunday morning wandering about. I wasn't as inspired by the exhibits inside as I was by the structure itself. While I love Guggenheim's museum in New York, his museum in Bilbao is unique in that it embodies the very essence of the place. The outside is sleek and self-consciously bold, but I found that that which threatens to slip into gaudiness is what makes the building all the more intriguing. So with all the reverence that the structure demanded, we ascended a dramatic staircase, passed an oversized canine, and entered. Inside, the architecture is economical but more whimsical than minimalist. Guggenheim managed to carve out space in such an imaginative way, that every step I took walking from exhibit to exhibit became an aesthetic experience in and of itself.

A floral puppy guards the Guggenheim

Postmodernismo- a bit underwhelming

In fact, this is how I felt all weekend both in and outside the museum. Every turned corner, every bite of pinxto (see below) delivered a new experience, a new sentiment.

Pintxos are pronounced "pinchos" but have some bizarre letters thrown in because Euskara is a weird, weird language just as Bilbao is a weird, weird place. But the little appetizers themselves are delicious! On my plate: fresh tomato with brie cheese rounds drizzled with herbed olive oil, and grilled zucchini with cream cheese and smoked salmon, both served on little toasts. 

And the city's famous white wine, "txacoli." I'll let you sound that one out for yourself.

Saturday in San Sebastián (still part of el País Vasco) I felt the same sense of wonder, but something in the air had changed. Maybe it was the fact that we were right on the Atlantic shore (finally!) and the sea breeze undid what two weeks of city smog had obscured. At last unlandlocked, I felt refreshed walking along the streets, stumbling into a beautiful cathedral, and meandering through a fish market from which wafted that scent that some find revolting and others find completely delicious (clearly I'm with the second category. Anything so fresh and raw just makes me think of all the flavors that will join in later in the cooking process-- I can almost hear the sizzling of the skillet before the fish is even out of its paper casing.) Speaking of fish, of food in general, some consider San Sebastián to be the culinary capital of the world as it has more Michelin-starred restaurants than any other city. When our tour guide told us this, I was of course extremely excited but also overwhelmed that we only had the rest of the afternoon to spend in the city. How can I possibly taste all there was to taste in just a few hours?

Though I didn't end up spending a couple hundred euros on a meal at a world renowned restaurant, I did spend two on the most delicious gelato I've ever had.

Flavors: pistachio and arroz con leche. Still not brave enough for the cone (traumatic childhood memories of ice-cream meeting asphault)

And then there was the lunch paid for by IES, which featured squid served in it's own ink...maybe more of an acquired taste.

"Calamares en su propia tinta." Slightly chewy, slightly salty...yet another thing about this place that eludes description or explanation.

With so many new foods, colors, scents, smells, and sensations, there was something about these two cities that teased my (still underdeveloped) sensibilities as a world traveler, and thwarted every expectation I had conjured up in vain. This is what I've been trying to come to terms with since I was first plucked from my home in the States, a home where I'm surrounded by people I know, where I speak the language, and where no food comes served in black goo. It is this: the ability to be comfortable with the uncomfortable. And that there are varying degrees of this discomfort. The lure of travel and then the subsequent shock of displacement-- it is enough to make you want to cite a cliche from a Joni Mitchell chorus (Don't it always seem to go...?) And so, I am by no means comfortable with my life in Madrid, but I felt a certain relief in coming back, in taking my metro line back to my apartment to a family that isn't quite mine but is smiley and lovely and generous all the same. It is a place where words don't contain random x's and t's, and for that I am grateful.

El sol y la mar, por fin!